


Wash Cycle

by thecosmonaut



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Abusive Relationships, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecosmonaut/pseuds/thecosmonaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve had a very busy past few years,” she had said to Madoka one evening on the bench in the park where the stars shone ahead and the ground under her feet seemed far away. “Nothing really ever changed until I met you.”</p>
<p>“If nothing ever changed, how could you be busy?” The girl smiled at her with eyes guileless of understanding. Her voice was honey sweet, and Homura wondered how she could have ever lived without hearing it again.<br/> -------</p>
<p>Short fic I found on my PC from forever ago. </p>
<p>Archive warning for violence, although it isn't that graphic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques are appreciated :)

Homura's life was one of cycles.

It would be fruitless to search for a place to begin her story, that much she was sure of, for when there was no end to you, there could surely be no beginnings either. Homura’s mind would simply chase itself down the rabbit holes of her memory in pursuit of something it could never catch and never would: the death she had craved and the rebirth she was promised. Both were forever lost to her. Homura had exiled herself from the garden of Eden called mortality. 

Her life had always been one of circles, she thought, even then, before she had known anything about the world beside the sharp smell of antiseptics and the whitewashed walls of the hospital ceiling. Fall ill, then recover, fall ill, then recover. Homura recalled her life as being small, feeble presence, as if it could simply melt away into the folds of the soft, cotton bedsheets underneath her, blinking out with one, last beat of a heart that had failed her time and time again. Fall ill, then recover, fall ill, then recover, until that cycle stopped and fed into another. White walls and oxygen tanks blurred into white cats and witch hunts, and nothing would ever be the same again save for the circles and the chest pains.

“I’ve had a very busy past few years,” she had said to Madoka one evening on the bench in the park where the stars shone ahead and the ground under her feet seemed far away. “Nothing really ever changed until I met you.”

“If nothing ever changed, how could you be busy?” The girl smiled at her with eyes guileless of understanding. Her voice was honey sweet, and Homura wondered how she could have ever lived without hearing it again.

“Maybe one day I’ll tell you.” However, it soon became clear that this was not the answer Madoka had been expecting for her pink brows furrowed and her nails dug into the wood of the bench. 

“Why are you always so mysterious, Homura-chan?” There was a wad of chewed gum by Homura’s foot, and Madoka seemed to study it as she spoke. “I don’t think I’ve learned anything more about you since the day I moved back to Mitakihara City.” 

And it’s better that you don’t. Homura kept her mouth closed and her hand still on the park bench.

“I prefer to keep some things to myself. Everyone has their secrets.” She ran a hand through her hair, tossing her long, black locks out into the cool, evening air, feeling them move like silk between her fingers. Madoka did not stir, but smiled, ever so slightly at the gum plastered to the ground. 

“That’s fine, Homura-chan. You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to. It would just be… nice. Nice to get to know you more.”  
The street lamp flickered overhead, its monotone buzz serving as the perfect melody to the silence that followed. Homura crossed her legs at their ankles and smoothed down her skirt as she watched the flowers in the meadow move to the will of the wind. 

“I was in the hospital,” she said, finally. “I had a heart condition. I nearly died, but the surgeons were able to perform a transplant just in time.”

“A heart transplant...? You’re alright now though, right?” Madoka blinked sheepishly at her, voice thick with concern until Homura nodded and scooped up the girl’s hand in hers. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Madoka. I’m right here, and I’m not leaving.”

She smiled at this. Madoka squeezed her hand in hers, and her skin was soft like the silk lapels on her Puella Magi uniform and the white linen sheets of the hospital bed and the velveteen fur that lined The Contractor's body, and Homura knew that she couldn’t let go, not again. Not for all the wishes in all the world.

“That’s a relief. You’re a good friend to me, Homura-chan. They’re saying that the hospital in Mitakihara City is the best in the world, and I can see why.”

No, it was different city, a different time, a different world, different rules, different her, but it still had the same Madoka, the same girl who changed everything. “Yes,” she answered. A lie. She didn’t look at Madoka when she spoke, she couldn’t. It was so long ago Homura could not even remember the details of her illness, so she pursed her lips together.

“Do you love me, Madoka-chan?” she said, suddenly. She dug her fingernails into Madoka’s palm, squeezing her, clenching their fists together so that they would never part. She waited for an answer, eyes fixed on the ground so that she didn’t have to look into the pink haired girl’s face. 

There came the soft sounds of giggles. “What? Homura-chan, we’ve only just met.” Madoka squeezed her hand back, squishing Homura’s rings against her fingers. “Isn’t this all a bit too sudden?”

But it wasn’t. Homura felt her heart harden. Wrenching her hand away, she elicited a gasp from the other girl. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.” Madoka frowned. Homura studied her with cool, violet eyes. “You’re a treasured person to me. I love you just as much as any other friend.”

Something like a static shock split her chest into two. Of course she didn’t understand. Madoka would never grasp everything she had given up to see her again, to touch her again. To Kaname Madoka, Homura was just another girl. To Akemi Homura, Madoka was everything. That was the fundamental difference. 

With a click of her pistol, a bullet erupted from her hands and pierced straight through Madoka’s forehead. 

After the gunshot, there came a sound of blood splattering against pavement, and another, repetitive husky sound, the sound of breathing. Homura did not know she was panting until then. 

She let another bullet rip through the girl’s skull. Then another. And another. Until all that was left of her face was a ruin of brains, bones, and blood. 

Wrenched from Homura’s lungs was a shriek that echoed throughout the quiet, park streets. She buried her face in her hands, feeling tears sting the corners of her eyes. 

Her pistol clattered to the ground, falling into a pool of blood that splashed blood up her stockings to her knees. With a shaking sniffle, Homura wiped her eyes with her sleeve, took a deep breath, and then, as if automated, sat by Madoka’s side, allowing her broken body to slump against hers.  
She was still warm. 

Finding the other girl’s hand with hers, Homura reached down, thumbed her shield with her fingers, and turned back the clock. 

“I’ve had a very busy past few years,” she said to Madoka. “Nothing really ever changed until I met you.”

And the other girl smiled and laughed and said, “If nothing ever changed, how could you be busy?” 

“Maybe one day, I’ll tell you.”

Homura’s life was one of cycles.


End file.
